


The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: RvB Universe [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adaptation of The Dying Detective, Dying Detective Fix-It, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Note that this is not related to S4, Oral Sex, Prostitution references, Suicide, Viclock, conversion therapy, drug use references, suicidial ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes thought Victor Trevor forgot about him when he went off to work for his Uncle Cul during his gap year, but Sherlock and John discover years later that Culverton Smith knows far more about Victor's fate.





	1. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you

**Author's Note:**

> If some of this chapter sounds familiar to you, it's because I reworked some sections from Robbery vs Burglary into ths fic as well. The rest is new content, but I wanted to expand on what I wrote there initially. Think of it as being in the same universe if you wish. The chapter titles are Walt Whitman.

“Why did you stop?”

Sherlock wasn't sure which activity John was referring to..the drugs themselves, or the lengths he had been willing to go to to procure them. “Victor Trevor had a case for me, and suggested what would turn out to be a rather promising career path. Then a certain Detective Inspector insisted I get clean or I would not be allowed access to another crime scene.”

“Victor Trevor. Was he a drunken berk?”

“No. No, he was a friend.... "

 

 

 

*****

_For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you_

 

The anxiety of May Week was effectively channelled into a series of random outbursts--usually involving the consumption of copious amounts of alcoholic beverages-- but occasionally students and alumni would participate in something a bit more...dignified. An Ultimate Frisbee tournament, a pavement chalk art mural, or, in this case, an impromptu display of exceptional musical talent-- if one ignored the piece where everyone switched instruments. The chapel acoustics were unlike anywhere Sherlock had ever been before. He briefly considered, yet again, joining the orchestra, but each time he discounted the notion almost immediately. Two years, and he still hadn't formed any close friendships, preferring to spend most of his time moping in his room. The occasional acquaintances, yes. Drinking buddies who sometimes found his skills useful. Like the group heading over to him now. 

It was fast approaching Suicide Sunday, and his work was completed. He was confident in its quality, even if his chemistry prof had taken an immediate dislike to him for his unorthodox approaches to balancing equations, but alcohol (and other things) could serve as a distraction until the grades were posted. Wilkes could always be counted on to ask him to tag along with the group, happy to use Sherlock's little parlour tricks to suss out any girls he was likely to get a leg over with. Sure enough, the invitation was extended, and Sherlock, flushed with the concert and the end of exams, accepted it.

After about a half-hour of camaraderie at the pub, Seb headed out with the girl Sherlock had mentioned was on the rebound, and he gave him a quick wink as they headed out the door. He had actually thanked him for not keeping her for himself. Sherlock smirked. As if that would ever happen. The original group soon dispersed, and he recognised someone in the far corner of the bar. Call it a past relationship, but it would have been far more accurate to call it a past business transaction. The man was headed in his direction, but had not made eye contact. Sherlock looked down at his half-empty glass. It was his third. Not nearly enough. As he continued to walk toward the door, the man made a detour to his table. "My place. Fresh supply," was barely audible above the din of the other patrons. Sherlock followed him out.

They walked in silence, Sherlock a pace or so behind. A block past the bar, the man turned, grabbing Sherlock and giving him a rather abrupt shove into a wall. It wasn't especially painful, just a bit of a shock is all. When he went in for a kiss, Sherlock rumbled in his ear to wait till they were back at his flat to start-- an attempt to convince him it would be better if they were high. Except clearly the man already _was_ , so the suggestion held little appeal, but still.... A few more aggressive kisses as random bar patrons staggered down the front of the street, some nearly turning in front of them, but veering away instead. 

Mark? Mike? Mac?, hadn't seemed like he had exhibitionist tendencies in the past, but then again, new interests come and go... and although it was a fun pastime, it wasn't always easy to deduce precisely what someone wanted at any given encounter.

He matched his force with his own, taking a bit more control of the situation, but the man responded by shoving him back again and leaning in for more. He wanted here. Now. Alleyways may play into a great many people's fantasy lives, but Sherlock preferred a nice, clean bed--with participants only, not random spectators. He felt his breathing increase, but this wasn't the artificial confidence brought forth by the knowledge that something was working its way into his brain via his arm in a decent enough substitute for arousal. 

Sherlock suspected there was no fix back at his flat after all--he was just seeing how far he could get on the spot, and hoping maybe it wouldn't matter. Except it did. A goods-for-services deal required _goods._ Sherlock struggled again to break free and was met with still greater resistance. This time he was shoved back hard into the brick, his breath forced out of his lungs.

"Hey!" The voice was confident and clear. "I said, 'Hey!'"

"Bugger off."

"Just a friendly greeting. Saying hello. To you. And to your friend. Hey!" He waved at Sherlock.

This new man was walking his dog-- a bull terrier-- and was struggling to restrain him. He looked at Sherlock. Said something that almost sounded like... 'And how are you doing this fine afternoon?' It was hard to hear it, exactly, with the distortion in his head. Sherlock tried to look over at him, but his eyes didn't seem to want to make the journey. The next thing he knew, the dog's teeth were sinking into someone's (not his) ankle, and then it was just the two of them. Sherlock and The Man Who Said Hey. And his dog.

"I'm surprised he managed to run off, given the shape of that ankle, but he's gone now." He smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, I just need to check some things, so I'm going to feel parts of your body, okay? I will try my very best to be gentle, but no guarantees it will feel that way to you, unfortunately." He reached behind to touch the back of Sherlock's head and then along his throat in a practiced manner. "Okay. You are going to be all right. Just a bit of blood. Don't worry... the scalp is filled with capillaries. It bleeds. A lot. But it isn't too serious. I'm more concerned about your lack of visual focus. Track this," he raised a finger which was bright red with blood, "if you can. Oh, and my name's Victor. Can you tell me yours? And what year it is?"

*****

“I don’t understand." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in a mixture of disdain and genuine confusion. "Why a nurse? You are more than capable of becoming a physician.”

“Because a doctor hardly spends any time with patients. They’re barely in the room before they’re out again and on their way to the next one. The nurses are the ones who actually provide the care most of the time." Victor dropped a textbook to his side and stretched his long legs out till they reached over the edge of the dormitory mattress. "Honestly, though, I wonder if I’m capable of any of it lately. I don’t think there is enough room in my brain for Chemistry. I feel like for everything I put in, something pops out. I wish it felt more relevant to nursing. I sometimes feel like they make us take these courses just to thin out the herd.”

“That is a distinct possibility, but I’m rather glad for it. I don’t want some idiot who doesn’t know the difference between a milligram and a microgram treating me. You can do this, Victor. I’d be happy to help.”

 

*****

 

“This is where they wrote “Brain Damage”, you know.” Victor plopped down on the ground and dug through his backpack to retrieve some crisps-- an impromptu picnic lunch. 

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

“’Dark Side of the Moon’… ‘the lunatic is on the grass’… this is the grass they were talking about.” He tapped a patch beside him.

“The home of Newton, Darwin, Bacon, Bohr, Turing… and you are impressed by some pop group writing a song about the grass outside of the chapel?”

“Have you heard the song?”

“No.”

“Well, remind me to loan it to you later. You might just add Waters to your list. I’ll throw some other stuff in too.” His eyes sparkled when he knew something Sherlock didn't.

 

*****

"If the attraction is there, then why on Earth not?"

"Because it's...because it's complicated. You can't just do that with a friend. What if you take that step and you're wrong? Then the friendship is over, just because you wanted to... well you just don't do that."

"Well in the _movies_ you don't," Sherlock conceded. "You have to lose the first quarter of the film to awkward pining. In real life, you observe first, of course. You read the signs. I mean, Terry was obviously gay. It's not as if Jonas had to risk losing a friend to some sort of ridiculous heterosexual panic." Sherlock put on an aghast expression, and proceeded to mock the character with surprising skill. "'Oh. Oh, I'm not... _that way_ '." Victor flashed a quick smile. "'But...you thought I was? How could you ever... Did I wear the wrong color tie on Thursday by mistake and you thought it meant... _No, no_ the Herb Ritts prints of nude men are just because I love black and white photography. And I read Allen Ginsberg and Walt Whitman and Oscar W--'"

"Walt Whitman? Really?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Walt Whitman. Have you ever actually _read_ anything he wrote, or did you fake your way through class?"

Victor thew the remnants of the popcorn at Sherlock, and they lodged artfully in his hair

"I only read the ones about the Civil War. And the introduction to it said he fathered six illegitimate children. And that some critic, Simons was it?, was friends with him for over twenty years and asked him if his definition of comradeship included," he searched his mind for the words, "ummm, 'semi-sexual emotions and actions which no doubt do occur between men'...and he denied it over and over again, and... and ... oh. It does sound ridiculous that the Lincoln book would even mention it at all if it wasn't... never mind." He sighed. "I wish they would just come out and say it. Like it wasn't some terrible secret. Might... make some people _actually feel_ like it wasn't... some terrible secret."

"Well. Terry wasn't exactly hiding it, in any case."

"But that doesn't matter. Just because Terry wasn't...actively trying to hide it...doesn't mean Jonas could just come out and ask him, you know."

"I repeat. Why. On Earth. Not?"

"Fine. Clearly you don't see how... Fine, Sherlock." He turned to face him. "Would you like to go out with me?" The words gushed out like water through a broken dam.

"We already go out. All the time. Do you mean would I like to have sex with you?"

Victor looked around them to see who might have possibly heard. The theatre was empty. "Uh. Yeah."

"Yes, I would. See. That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Victor looked for more popcorn, and finding none, dumped the bucket over Sherlock's head. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and fluffed it out, shaking out the bits of unpopped kernels. That's when Victor leaned in and kissed him.

*****

“State function: The state function is independent of the history of the system… a function of the parameters of the system which only depends upon the parameters’ values at the endpoints, perhaps as a function of time, or some other external variable,” Victor frowned.

“All right. Imagine we are traveling from London back to Norfolk.”

“Who’s driving?” Victor asked, his face lightening considerably.

“You are, of course.”

“Well, all right, then, do continue,” the smile was now out in full force.

“You are driving your usual route home, but there is a construction detour. Then we are rerouted back onto the main road, continuing on, until you spot a sign in the distance for one of those horrid medieval fairs, and you drag us off on some side road to a tiny village in search of fake jousting. It’s late, so we grab a room in East Dereham for the night--"

“One should definitely not drive while drowsy…”

“--and eventually we get to the Trevor Estate. To measure the distance travelled, it matters what path you take. It is, therefore, path-dependent, and *not* a state function. This is the case with distance, and also with work. A state function, however, is path-independent. We care about where we started and where we end up, but we don’t care about what happens in between. For example, how much money you spend on said trip. If you start out with 100 pounds, and we split one of those giant turkey legs at the fair, we now have 90, you call your dad and feed him a sob story about how you are just a poor college student taking your friend-with-a-benefit-or-two with you on holiday, and you need more money to make it home because you spent it all on lubricant in East Dereham--”

“Sherlock…,” Victor is blushing, and Sherlock moves back to more comfortable territory. For now, the blush is all the evidence he needs that their relationship is headed in the right direction.

"--and he wires 100 quid to your account, for a total of 190. Then we fill up on petrol and are down to 170. Then we have a friendly little wager for 20 about whether or not you can successfully recall the scientific nomenclature for the next bit of road kill we see, which you lose, and then you bet I can’t… name the next band on the radio… and you win it back…this is path-independent, because we don’t really care about the ups and downs, the journey, all we care about is what we started with and what we ended up with. That is a state function. Pressure, volume, and internal energy are all path-independent.”

“God, I can’t wait for our trip...”

“Neither can I.”

 

*****

 

“I’m telling you, he will know.”

“Fine. Fine. For the whole month, fine. It’s just to keep my mind occupied. I don’t need it.”

“Thank you. I mean, I know you can stop... I’ve seen you go without for longer…and he’s… he sees it from the bench every day. He will know.”

“A month with you, I won’t be bored. I’m sure there is plenty to do in Donnethorpe. We can… hunt? Fish? Spend time in your room?”

“He’ll know that too.”

“Wait, you’re not saying we shouldn’t…”

“Oh no, no, I’m not saying that. Just, we need to be discreet. A bit. I haven’t said anything to him. He’s, well, he’s pretty traditional. I want to tell him-- and I will-- just, not now. I will write him a letter. I don’t want to say it to his face. And I don’t want to tell him until we’re… I mean we’re not…”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Victor. It’s all fine. I’m not going anywhere. And you were right when you said I needed to slow down.”

“And I needed to speed up.”

“You know that beautiful mouth will keep me happy for a long time to come.” What Sherlock doesn’t say, because it must be wrong, is that sometimes he thinks he doesn’t really want any of it. That trying to generate the stimuli required to drag the response out of his body is exhausting. That what he likes about his time with Victor is simply being with Victor. It sounds disgustingly romantic, and it sounds like he enjoys being used, so he lets the thought go.

Victor leans over, his body pulsing with excitement, and gives Sherlock a passionate kiss. He supposes Victor is a really good kisser, but kissing is certainly not Sherlock’s thing. Fortunately, other things Victor can do, and sometimes even does, with his mouth are very much his thing. He thinks of that during the kiss, imagines the sensation of Victor’s tongue between his legs, and he manages to return the passion in the form of deeper kisses. Then he seizes control, and spreads the kisses across Victor’s chest, finding his way down to his navel, sucking at the hollow, rubbing his cheek against the darker hairs below, until Victor is restless, his body jerking forward as he struggles not to place his hands deep in Sherlock’s hair and to guide him where he needs him.

Sherlock knows he won’t do it---won’t immobilize him--they’ve navigated around those perilous waters before. Instead, they reach for each other, and Victor laces their fingers together, grabbing tight, while Sherlock closes his eyes and smiles, soft and content. Perfect. He has found a way to make it work. Sherlock does not fool himself, he knows it is because Victor is nervous to give, and Sherlock is nervous to take, but the precarious balance holds.

He observes Victor’s every reaction, catalogues his every sound and movement, charts in his mind where he touches and kisses and licks and what the response to each motion is. His mouth is precisely where Victor would have placed it, but Sherlock has moved there of his own accord. He is setting the pace, and it is glorious. When the time comes, when Victor is ready, Sherlock will be able to lose himself to him completely. He strokes himself as he imagines what it will feel like to be so far gone, lost in pure sensation, pleasure coming at him from every angle-- how amazing that moment will be. For now, he has the beauty of this; he is the conductor of the symphony as Victor hits a crescendo-- an orgasm followed by his own.

 

*****

Justice of the Peace Victor Trevor Sr. was, in a word, strong. Both physically and mentally, he seemed solid and respectable. His face showed the marks of more than a few fist fights in his youth, and he remained remarkably fit for a man his age. His complexion was weather-beaten, his hair entirely grey, but his eyes remained sharp and focused; he and Victor shared the same piercing shade of blue, but whereas Victor’s had a certain softness, that aspect was entirely lacking in his father. Victor had the same strength, but his was tempered with grace. More a gymnast than a prize-fighter. In spite of his robust appearance, Victor knew his father’s health had become uncharacteristically frail in the last few months. The deterioration was disconcerting.

Dinner had been a rather quiet affair, with talk centering on their studies. Victor offered much praise for Sherlock’s assistance, while Sherlock brushed it aside as hardly having been necessary. Talk of career paths followed. It had taken Trevor some time to accept his son’s having chosen a field traditionally considered feminine; in fact, what had won him over was what he perceived as Victor’s practicality; he had chosen a career that required fewer years of study. He would become a fine medical professional in far less time, while doctors could waste years completing their training. Trevor firmly believed Sherlock, in contrast, lacked ambition… his course of study was limited to his whims and seemed without purpose. His first-class mind, however, was readily apparent, and Trevor was pleased to have an audience for his current cases, the ones which he was permitted to discuss, of course.

“Much of it is repetitive,” he said. “If you read case studies or court summaries, you will soon discover there is nothing new under the sun.”

“That seems to contradict with truth being stranger than fiction,” said Sherlock.

“Indeed, it would seem so. The patterns repeat, but occasionally there is something new and interesting. It is my duty to remain neutral until the facts present themselves, but occasionally, those facts are quite bizarre. I have been keeping a journal of sorts. You are welcome to look through it. I am afraid my son holds little interest in criminal matters.” Trevor made a gesture towards the rather large bookshelf where the volumes were filed, just below a massive landscape painting. Everything seemed to be on a grand scale.

Sherlock crossed the room and laid his hand lightly upon the first volume. “Was the library selection provided by the former occupant of the house?”

"Why yes, it was,” there was a hint of surprise in his voice, but in was kept well in check.

“And the housing staff as well?”

“The estate’s former owner decided he preferred city life. I simply retained the staff. The cook was tolerable, and I had no desire to go about searching for good people.”

Victor smiled. “Observation and inference, Dad. It’s a bit of a specialty with Sherlock,” he said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go on, tell him how.”

“The books within easy reach are travel guides and older editions of novels with themes of adventure-- just the thing to fuel a young child’s sense of daring, now treasured by an adult who has grown to prefer real life adventure to reading. Of course, there are your journals next to them. The others, filling up the remaining space, appear to be random, poorly categorized and of widely varying taste. These,” he waved a long arm towards the left, “are most definitely Victor’s, though.”

Trevor smiled. “You have a first-rate mind, Mr. Holmes.”

"Please, sir, call me Sherlock."

“I told you you would enjoy meeting him, Dad. You thought I was exaggerating when I said he does things like this all the time, right?”

“I doubted even half of it was true. But it is easy enough to test—come now, I’m sure I would make an excellent subject. What can you tell about me, Sherlock?” he said, exuding confidence.

“Well, certainly you have traveled the world.”

“That I have.”

“You have a particular fondness for the American Southwest.

“Also true.” So far these deductions, based on his reading material and decorations, were quite simplistic. He remained unimpressed.

“You’ve become concerned with health and safety as of late, particularly your personal safety.”

At this, Trevor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes. There have been some burglaries recently.”

“You’ve studied art extensively. And you were, at one point, friendly with an artist named James Armitage, though you no longer are."

The change in Trevor was instant, and he grew pale enough for Victor to step closer out of concern. “Yes, yes, I did know him some time ago. How... how could… ?”

“I told you!” Victor beamed, and turned back toward Sherlock.

“It is quite simple. The safety concerns are determined by your alarm system by the door; it is new, and you were quite slow in entering the code to disarm it upon entering the house. Your books and art collection are evidence of your travels, of course, and this painting is clearly your original work, bearing your signature. Am I correct in assuming it was your wife who posed?”

Trevor nodded.

“One also doesn’t expect to see hand-painted copies in the style of a famous work in the home of someone who hasn’t studied art. Your basic admirer would have a print, or, if a hand-painted one, certainly a reproduction of a more famous work. To see a Vermeer that is not actually a Vermeer is a fascinating artistic exercise. ” He paused, smiled at Victor, and said, simply “Artists in the family. My grandmother was very proud of her brother’s fame.” He glanced back to Trevor, “Horace Vernet.”

“The frame is new, but it is done with murkier, oil-based paint, to match the style of the old masters. But here-- where this small shrub is, in the bottom right corner-- this was done recently with a far lesser quality acrylic paint. A work of this quality required great skill and would not be unsigned, and, it in fact isn’t unsigned. One can still see, at the correct viewing angle, traces of smeared paint thinner. In darker light, it would be impossible to make out-- concealed by the shrub and the removal-- so the attempt to obscure the signature was likely done when it was already hanging on the wall. An emotional and impulsive move, to prevent someone from recognizing the name of the artist without completely ruining the work. It can be conjectured from the traces of the remaining letters: ‘James Armitage’. It’s puzzling. The painting must be of great value, sentimental value, to not have disposed of it entirely, not economic value, for it would have affected it to have it defaced. You knew Mr. Armitage personally, and had a falling out. It is unlikely he was immediate family who would have been likely to visit- a cousin perhaps? Or, formerly, a very close friend?” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Trevor for a reaction.

“Ah, yes. Some things do serve as a reminder to us of our roots, and that we have a choice in the direction of our lives when a path is destructive to one’s soul. James was involved in activities no one would be proud of. We parted ways many years ago.” The response had been directed at his son, more of a lecture than an answer for Sherlock. “My wife enjoyed the painting, nonetheless, and she was not disturbed by the artist, even though I did not wish to see or speak of his name again. Now, how’s about some brandy?” he asked, moving closer to the fire.

*****

 

"Dad's... he's..."

"I'll be right over. Train leaves at 9:15."

Trevor’s health was deteriorating each day. Sherlock attempted to stay with Victor for support, but his father insisted a sick man’s bedside was no place for a friend, and neither of them saw fit to correct that they were something more than that. Not now. So Sherlock cut the visit short and took the train back to London. Victor stayed on to attend to his father’s ailing health. He grew steadily worse.

Victor set up a video chat. "He's not long for it, I think. He's giving me things of his. A watch. A tie pin. He was asking me if... he was talking a lot about getting involved with the wrong people, and them leading you astray. Sometimes it feels like he knows; he just stares at me and kind of sighs. I had to go find him his Bible. He hasn't read the thing in years, he used to say the only thing a Bible was good for was for swearing on. But he made me go up there and find it and bring it down to him. He said he was grateful he met my mother. That he had had me."

"I... don't think it's unusual, when you are dying, to say these things."

"I know, but.... It's... scary... how he jumps around from topic to topic. He said he wanted pen and paper to write something for me. Said I shouldn't read it until later, though. It's just sitting there, sealed, on his desk. I guess it's all the things he wants to say to me, but is afraid I'll walk out if he does? He talked about you too."

Sherlock bolted upright. "Me?"

"He said he had the name of someone over at Scotland Yard, said he would put in a good word for you if you promise to help a friend of his who is having a problem."

"Of course I will."

"He said he would explain in all the letter. The letter I'm not supposed to open. Should   
I steam it, Sherlock? It's right here. I don't know."

"Wait. If you do, don't do it right after he has written it. He will be at his most suspicious."

Victor nodded. "I'm glad you are on my side. Maybe tomorrow, then."

There was an extended silence, during which Victor hadn't moved a muscle. Sherlock almost thought they had lost the connection.

"He asked me what I wanted to do after school," he said slowly.

They had been steadfastly avoiding this question. Sherlock hoped he would change the topic. 

"I told him I was studying nursing because I wanted to be a nurse."

Sherlock was shocked. Victor could be curt, abrupt to the point of bluntness, with others...but never to his father.

Victor tilted his head down. "Well, I said it nicer than that, but that was the gist of it, basically. And he smiled at me and said I showed a..."remarkable strength of character," and that he usually convinces people to see things his way, but I am my own man, and he was proud."

"Well...you _are_. You..."

"Knock it off, Holmes. You know even better than I do that that's a set up." Sherlock burst out laughing. "He's trying to win me over, get me to do what he wants with that sentimental bullcrap. But the thing is, what he is suggesting actually sounds...pretty good. My uncle, well you know there's family money-- I mean, anyone who's been to Donnethorpe knows that much-- but my uncle took his share and used it to run a few very successful companies in Indonesia. He started out making candles. I know it sounds weird, but he made a ton. Now he is branching out to exporting fabrics, and will be opening a pharmaceutical plant next month."

"Diverse interests."

"They have one thing in common, though-- a ridiculously high profit margin. He once mentioned that the markup from raw material to finished product was obscene. Anyway, he has offered for me to stay with him and learn a thing or two about international marketing."

"I couldn't think of a worse fit for you if I tried."

"Yeah, I agree." Mischief creeped into his features and Sherlock was entranced. "But. What if I go there and learn about how these big-business-types work? How they staff their cheap labor factories and institutionalised slums-- who the middlemen are who bring in these workers and sell them on this life?"

"Ah! A humanitarian spy. Now that's more like it!"

"Do you know wig manufacturers in China buy the hair from people in Burma? And it isn't like some Gift of the Magi fairy tale where this beautiful woman chops her hair off and sells it. They save the hair from their combs-- from other people's combs too, if they are lucky. And then they sell it. Dirty, ratty old hair. And pay people less than a pound a day to clean it, untangle it and straighten it, and then they sort it into bundles and sell it to China for even more cheap labor to turn it into cheap wigs. Think what I can _do_ if I know how these places work from the inside out, Sherlock! These factories. I could bring it all down."

Sherlock smiled. Ridiculously ambitious, that was Victor. But the thing is, if anyone could do it, he could. He was intelligent, but not condescending. People liked him. And he liked people. Most people, anyway. And why wouldn't they. Why wouldn't anyone? Gook looking, yes, obviously, but that was such a small part of what made him truly attractive. And he never wrote off anyone entirely for their flaws, and for that Sherlock was eternally grateful. Victor saw how things worked and, even if he could sometimes be... well, a bit slow... once he got it, he really got it. Every detail. And he had the willingness and the ability to change things. "I have no doubt you could. But I thought your passion was medicine?"

"That's the other thing. There is a clinic in the same town. It's run by the VSO--their headquarters are in India, but, they need people on the ground throughout Asia in the fight against malnutrition. I can volunteer there while I work with Uncle Cul. Maybe I can even get him to set up some sort of food distribution program in his factory. Fight it right at the source. Healthy workers are more productive workers?"

"And you told your dad just how much of this master plan?"

"I told him I would love to spend time in a foreign country before I start putting my nursing degree to good use."

"Mycroft keeps telling me I should consider 'international opportunities'."

"By which he means go be a spy, right?"

Sherlock dropped his voice, low and deep. "I'm afraid if I tell you...I will have to kill you."

Victor laughed and laughed. Sherlock couldn't help but join in. "Well, if I have this experience, I can take it anywhere. Poverty knows no nationality. And, a year abroad, it seems a good opportunity for a little adventure. Don't worry. There are still mailboxes in rural Indonesia, even if the internet connections are kind of spotty." 

Sherlock would have taken it as a goodbye if it had come from anyone else. 

He hadn't expected to hear from Victor frequently once he had left the UK, but he had been hoping for a letter, yes. Emails. Maybe they could have kept some sort of relationship going, though it seemed destined to failure, and that was likely precisely what Victor's father had intended. Sherlock tried his best to let it go gracefully.


	2. Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

"Sherlock, did you see this article, 'The Business of Your Life'? It's about..."

"Don't care what the latest self-help charlatan thinks regarding the free market as a life instruction manual. Not everything should be run like a business. A hospital, for example, should be run like a _hospital._ And to elaborate on the point, even if one _did_ choose to run one's life like a business, one could do far better than to take advice from a man who started a company with well over 10 million pounds in hand. With that sort of ready investment capital, it would take a colossal idiot to not achieve success."

John smirked. "So I see you've heard of him."

"I've taken to heart your last admonishment that anything could be potentially useful for a case."

"Like...say... the solar system?"

"John. Has it ever occurred to you that I did, and do still, know _all about_ the solar system and was merely trying to illustrate a point regarding cluttering of the mind?"

John paused for a moment before answering, "No." Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, and John ignored the petulant response, continuing. "Well, since you asked--"

"I think it is quite clear that I didn't," came the muffled voice from the sofa backrest.

"-- the reason I brought it up is Smith's new book is all about how you control your destiny. It's called _The Power to Change_. About taking control of your life, getting it to go where you want it to--"

Sherlock sat up in annoyance. ”And you are mentioning this _because_?"

" _Because_ he mentions in it that the new wing of his centre has just opened, and it is named after his nephew, Victor Trevor, ...and I thought the name--"

"Give." 

Sherlock held his hand out and John plunked the paper into it. He snatched it up and read it fiercely, pages flipping about like a fish on dry land, then Sherlock dropped the paper to the floor and went perfectly still. John watched carefully. After a few long minutes he said, "Enlighten me?"

"Yes he is one and the same. Twenty two years ago, Victor Trevor set out to muckrake his uncle's company. He found something. And Culverton Smith killed him for his trouble."  
****

The candle and textile companies were sold off so long ago that there was no record of either ever having existed...that could be accessed without breaking into a tax office in Singapore, at least. Sherlock considered buying a plane ticket to do just that, before deciding there was little to be gained from it. The pharmaceutical plant had been sold off too, but there was a record of that transaction. It had earned Smith a great deal of money, which he had channeled into rental properties where the neighborhoods were in transition. He bought low and sold high, no matter what the enterprise. And he contributed to many varied charities through his foundation. Haphazardly. As if the goal was to not put enough funds in any one area to make a lasting impact.

The building was classified as a non-profit self-help center. Part of it funded research on new drugs which were similar to suboxone and methadone; though the center itself was non-profit, the pharmaceutical wing was financially exploitable if a new treatment option were ever developed. And they had built-in drug testers for approval trials right downstairs. The lower level focused on things like 12-step programs and yoga. Sherlock clicked a few more links and smirked. Anyone who could cure themselves of drug addiction using yoga clearly hadn't made full use of the drugs and had wasted their money...like someone who smoked only one cigarette a day. If they could break free without a grueling detox, why had they ever bothered in the first place? 

The Trevor Wing was new, like the article had said. It was billed as dedicated to relapse and suicide prevention, but was also a sort of low-cost therapy clearinghouse, addicts not being noted for their preponderance of spare cash. There were staff psychiatrists supervising "highly trained medical students and volunteers". Sherlock considered the syntactic ambiguity whilst browsing the website. The medical students were probably "highly trained". As for the volunteers, he had his doubts. He wrote down the names of the supervising staff and began to research just how highly trained everyone was. 

Cross-referencing staff supervisors took no time at all. They were quite forthcoming on their individual websites, and the overwhelming majority had, in fact, linked to the very same page... laycounsellorstoday.co.uk, for information on how to volunteer.

_Counseling is a caring relationship wherein one person seeks to help another with the stresses of daily life. No longer a place for couches, jargon, and foreign-accented therapists asking about your mother-- today's counsellors are called upon by God to help their neighbors. There are specialists whose training and expertise enable them to deal skillfully with those who need help, but most problems **do not** require a specialist._

_Lay Counsellors assist with clarifying problems, exploring and expressing feelings, reducing stress, developing self-acceptance and God-awareness and other ways of confronting counselees with their sinful and self-defeating thoughts and/or actions to find new or renewed willingness to live in harmony with the Word of God._

There was some additional nonsense about "parakaleo" (to comfort, support, encourage, exhort and admonish) as opposed to "noutheteo" (to admonish, warn, and rebuke). One was supposed to be better. Sherlock let his head fall forward into his hands. 'Well, either way they are admonishing,' he thought. 'Can't forget the admonishment.' 

When Sherlock had done his stint in rehab, Mycroft had known better than to set him up in a centre which focused on turning his addiction over to an invisible cloud-dweller who would magically relieve whatever pain it was he had sought fit to inflict on him in the first place, but the wording here seemed a bit above and beyond even your typical 12-step program. He clicked on the link "So you want to become a lay counsellor?" 

_Certification for addiction counseling at the lay level is available as a ministry to assist those in need who cannot afford counseling. Required courses: Faith Therapy, Effective Counseling and Coaching Skills, Transformation, Counseling Addictions, Counseling Codependency, and a 30 hour counseling practicum._

You could attend in person or use the more expensive, but oh so convenient, option of ordering a DVD. Of course, the instructors were available via email to answer questions, and the practicum "supervision" could be provided through email as well. 

If he went in as a patient, he would never see Smith in person. As a counselor would be possible, but probably only a brief meeting during some formal orientation, perhaps another at a corporate Christmas party. He needed something appealing to Smith's ego-- an interview for his new book seemed a possibility. Then he would be free to ask about his past entrepreneurial endeavors, and see if he could determine which business Victor had worked at alongside him--and which chemicals he could expose him to under the guise of an ordinary work day. The autopsy report would provide some information about what drugs were in Victor's system, but it was painfully slow getting the paperwork out of some storage facility in Jakarta. While he was impatiently waiting, he could get a good sense of what Smith's modus operandi might be in meeting face-to-face. 

_****_

The beginning of the interview was fairly straightforward pap. How he built his business empire, his media fame, current projects. He learned Smith seldom went into the factories himself. Delegation, apparently, was the mark of the successful entrepreneur--so that made repeated exposure to a chemical hidden within Victor's office a possibility, but that would be a lingering condition which would take far too long. It needed to be a one-time massive exposure...a single, unexpected visit? At home, it would be easier to both administer and monitor. Smith would certainly have household staff though. Even if Victor was in another area of the home, ("home"...more like a militarised compound with ample space and high security) administering a poison would be difficult. 

Victor wouldn't have taken any recreational drugs (where the dosage or contents might have been tampered with quite easily), Sherlock was confident of that. But in food or other prescribed medication... it was possible. Tasteless and odourless and something Victor wouldn't have reacted to right way by, say, spitting it out, was more difficult than most people thought. And there would be chefs preparing food, certainly not Smith himself. 

He silently cursed all of Indonesia for not having better recordkeeping. If the whole country wasn't grossly incompetent, he would have known precisely what was in Victor's system, had nine prime theories on how it had been administered before walking through the front door, and had one confirmed with a glance at Smith. Sherlock covered his growing annoyance by surreptitiously pressing on his pencil until the point broke. He cursed out loud at the innocent writing utensil and retrieved another from his media kit. 

As it stood, he wasn't even certain it was a drug-- though it seemed likely, given Smith's experience with pharmaceuticals. For all he knew, it could have been as straighforward as a bullet to the brain. He could feel himself begin to freeze up for the briefest of moments as the imagery caught up to him. Should he feel upset, knowing this was _Victor_ , not some generic corpse? What he did feel was an even greater determination to solve the case quickly and bring Smith to justice. He had gotten away with it for far too long. Sherlock turned a page in his notebook and moved on to another question. 

About halfway through Sherlock's list of inane queries, Smith looked at him and smiled slowly. That smile seemed to take over his entire face by increments, expanding without limit. "You've researched, though, haven't you? In preparation. You already know the answers to these questions, but you don't know what _my_ answers will be. I like that. I like it when people are thorough. It's endless fun. But I can always tell the ones who are skeptical about the benefits of what we do. They think these people will get free methadone, get clean, leave the facility, and then call up an old friend and be right back on the streets again within a week... and it all would have been a waste. They want to ask me more about the techniques, but so often they stop short." He tossed a hand to the side. "So ask me. Off the record. _On_ the record. Anything you want. We don't publish our details online, but-- what did you think of the other programs you found out about that were similar to this one?" 

Sherlock closed his notepad and locked onto Smith's eyes, unflinching. If he was going to pretend to be a journalist he might as well pretend to be a damned good one. Plus Smith answering questions under stress would be much more helpful in obtaining a sense of personality, which could easily be extrapolated to poisoning preferences. "Do you mean what you do in this building, Mr Smith, or what I think you do in your wilderness retreats? Something perhaps more like Journey Into Manhood? Like JONAH? Like Exodus?" 

Smith looked only mildly surprised. "Yes, those are rather specific programs, with a greater demand than most people realise. Do you find them _intriguing?_ " 

"I wouldn't think it as lucrative as your other ventures." 

"It isn't. The money is in drug research. Those particular offerings are more of a... personal interest for me. Yes, we have such a program. _The Power to Change_ applies to all aspects of one's life. Our version is called A New Horizon." He gave Sherlock another quick appraisal. "What is your opinion on such programs, Mr Escott?" 

Sherlock hadn't truly researched any of them, though he knew all about their prevalence within faith-based psychological programs. It was a leap, yes, but a good one. Conversion therapy, or, as they referred to it, reparation therapy, was always controversial in any form. He had expected a flustered denial. Instead it was an invitation to delve. Smith was supremely confident; Sherlock would do his best not to disappoint. All transformative workshops had similar features. "Psychodrama. Spending the weekend naked, or, alternatively, swaddled in blankets to simulate being encased within the womb-- to squirm out and be reborn." 

"Some people feel the need to start fresh. A symbolic rebirth is helpful for them, as ridiculous as it may seem to those less motivated by emotions. And why is that, do you think? That you are not motivated by emotions. Do you find them untrustworthy?" 

"Untrustworthy implies emotions, in-and-of-themselves, have the capability of truth or deception. They have neither. They just simply exist. They are beyond rationality. Attempting to control or change them is often counterproductive...they can have their voice...just not a veto." 

"We don't try to change them here. We just offer another means of interpretation. I wouldn't dream of changing someone. It is impossible anyway. All we do here is talk..and if you choose to, you'll decide to change yourself." 

"Everyone, or just gay men?" 

Smith smiled. "There are no gay people in this program, Mr Escott. Homosexuals, yes. I'm not going to pretend that homosexuality isn't real; that it doesn't exist. Clearly it does. And _gay_ people are the ones who enjoy that lifestyle. See, we used to call it a deathstyle, back in the day, but we don't say those things anymore. It isn't...not really. And I'm not homophobic. I'm not afraid. I just don't make that my choice. I look at them, at gay people, and I can see that they are not like me. I don't look like that. I don't sound like that. They have a different type of brain." 

"They most certainly do not." 

"Well...mindset, then. Way of thinking. It is... different. That is why there are all those stereotypes... about fashion sense, and physical characteristics like lisps and so on. And yes, not every gay man is like that. But you know what? The happy ones-- the ones who coined the term "gay"-- are like that. They don't come to me-- come here-- for help, because they don't belong here. And if they are happy to simply stay amongst their peers within a like-minded community, more power to them, right?" 

Sherlock refused to acknowledge the comment. 

"Whether that is scientifically proven or not, it just... isn't what we want to be. I know you are curious about just what it is we do here, before you decide to commit to participating, but we both know why you are in this office. You didn't ask to meet with me personally because you wanted to write a feature article on my new book." Sherlock felt something tingle in the back of his head. It had been over twenty years ago, and he had never once met Culverton Smith. Victor had only mentioned him in one conversation. Why should Smith know him? "You came here for help. Later on, I will want to hear you say it. Truth. First and foremost: truth. It is an important component in _both_ our professions." 

"Back to your book, Mr Smith... you named this wing after your nephew?" 

"Yes. Victor had everything going for him, you see... a first class mind, a good job, a bright future, but he was robbed of it all. He hated himself. Oh, he looked just fine on the outside... but on the _inside_ he was just rotting away. A tree, still standing tall, but dead inside. Hollow. Have you ever seen when a spruce beetle wipes out an entire forest? It takes a few years, but if you look closely you can see the signs of intrusion. If Victor had only come to me for help, I could have saved him. Just like I saved so many others since. But, you don't come to the people who would _help_ you, do you? You come to people who are just like you-- with the same weaknesses. People who will only hurt you. Who will share their darkness with you. At first, you may feel the relief that comes from no longer being alone in your shameful secrets, but that only serves to make it worse as they drag you down with them until all hope is extinguished. You call them friends-- lovers even-- but they are enablers. They lie to you and you lie back to them." Smith leaned forward and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Honesty will set you free. Open the wounds so they can heal. It took the courage of a dying man to try and save Victor. Someone who didn't fear losing his son, as he had very little time left. His father tried to separate him from those who would do him harm. He sent him to me, to help him." 

"And you brought him to this program and he killed himself? Hardly a ringing endorsement of your work." 

"This program didn't exist yet. I tried to bring him to another one. Directed at teens. Younger people don't always see the benefits of things like a wife and children. They need a different approach. A bit more physical, perhaps. But he refused. He was working for me at the time....grew more and more despondent. I saw him sinking, bit by bit each day." 

Sherlock watched for any signs of accountability, not that he truly expected to find them. Smith played the game exceptionally well. 

"Well, I am here to answer your questions, of course. Any you might have. But...Victor's death is a bit difficult for me to talk about. I still feel so...guilty." 


	3. Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away

John glanced at the poorly-lit photograph of a man on the floor, his face obscured by a plastic bag. Sherlock watched him search for the right words. It was painful to observe, his effort to be sensitive. He prompted John to at least answer a simple question, just to get him to finally speak. "Standard suicide, yes? All too typical?"

"Over half of men use asphyxiation or hanging," John said.

Sherlock switched out the photograph for a toxicology report and flipped the picture face down on his desk.

"But John, chemical analysis! Suicide with this many drugs in one's system is a considerably lower statistical percentage...and many, even most, of those deaths should have been classified as accidental overdoses anyway-- so, not even true suicides. Besides, casual drug use was just not Victor." Sherlock rolled his eyes before John could even get a word out. "No amount of falling into a bad crowd would have done it. I _was_ a bad crowd. I ... tried." Sherlock went back to his deductions at greater speed. "And with an antidepressant already in his system that lowers the odds to 3% and since he had antidepressants _on hand_ he would have already been seeking _treatment_ for depression."

"All that proves is he probably already had suicidal thoughts."

"It was a fairly new formulation at the time, so he would have been monitored quite closely at first. Now after several months, when he was feeling better enough not to have kept up with the regimen, then I could see it, but... but look at what else was in his system as well. Amitriptyline, to reduce the rate and magnitude of depolarisation by blocking the sodium channels, decreasing conduction velocity in atrial and ventricular muscles. This prolongs the QT interval, so, ventricular tachycardia-- a random twitch rather than unison contraction, and the ventricles fail. But. The addition of _cimetidine_ \-- a simple over-the-counter treatment for peptic ulcers, easy enough to come by-- its presence tells us a great deal."

John nodded. "It would have inhibited the CYP2D6 liver isoenzymes, causing a side effect of sustained levels of amitriptyline in the blood."

"What it would have done was eliminate any possibility of survival if the victim was discovered and treatment attempted. The midazolam and diazepam are powerful benzodiazepine class sedatives. Not one, but _two_ in his system. They would cause a deep sleep before the amitriptyline started to act in overdose. Amitriptyline poisoning would be lethal in itself, but this addition causes unconsciousness before it would begin to take effect-- again, cutting off any chance to seek treatment. Death would occur within 12-24 hours. A bag over the head was completely unnecessary, and anyone creating this cocktail would know that. It was staged."

"Well, that is certainly possible, but--"

"He went to the clinic. He got vaccinations right before killing himself. Does that make sense to you? Suicidal people don't generally think about protecting themselves from disease. Tetanus, polio, typhoid fever, Hepatitis A and Hepatitis B vaccinations...all boosters, right on schedule. Any one of them could have been tampered with. After they were administered, he would have headed home feeling unwell. Smith would have helped him out of the car, guided him to rest, maybe even chatted with him for a bit, and then simply stuck a bag over his head when he collapsed. Instant suicide."

John was poring through the file now, reading the reports from the investigator and statements from Smith, who found the body when he not only didn't come down to breakfast (which wasn't all that unusual), but also didn't arrive in the lab and wouldn't answer his phone. A search of his living quarters took less than a minute before the body was found.

"If there had only been a proper investigation. A competent autopsy...."

"Sherlock, he was required to take the shots in order to work, and he needed a current immunization clearance to reenter the quarantined area to see the patients he wanted to visit... one last time. He had no cash on him. Nothing in his bank account."

"Stolen after his death."

"He _gave his things away_ , Sherlock."

"There was no note."

John sighed. "That's because... there was no one he wanted to leave a note _for_."

"He... he wouldn't have..."

"He knew medicine, Sherlock. He studied it for years. He didn't want to be saved. Yes, it was overkill. Not as a set up. To ensure it worked."

"It wasn't in his nature to... you had to _know_ him, John. He was just so... That was me. I was the one always on the edge of deciding if it was all worth it or not. Not Victor. Never Victor."

"He was comfortable, then? With... being--

"With being gay? No. No, he wasn't _comfortable_. Who could ever be _comfortable_? You're not even _comfortable_ saying the word."

"I just don't think tha--"

"You think he was fine with it? Is anybody? Even now? Even with all the support and marriages and legal protection which we still _need_ , there are people like Smith running around writing best sellers on how to be whatever passes as "normal", and groups like People Can Change, and--"

"Look. It was just because I don't think a few relationships are enough to... I don't like to throw around labels. That's not because it's wrong or bad. It just isn't necessarily appropriate."

"Right. Inappropriate."

"Not _inappropriate_! That makes it sound... Just... I hesitated, because I know that an action isn't an identity-- or even a whole series of them-- because that's what you felt you needed to do instead of being what you actually _wanted_ to do. That's a trap too, thinking your sexuality is suddenly fixed and inflexible."

"Well, John, I have an appointment next week with someone you would get along rather well with. You can both talk about how malleable you are."

Sherlock stormed out of the flat, taking care to slam the door.

****

He needed another read of Smith. One last attempt to figure out if he would have wanted his nephew gone, and why. Focus on motive. If the motive isn't strong enough, then...then maybe John was right.

He needed to find out what Victor might have experienced-- which organization Smith had shipped him off to-- but there was no way he would deign to set foot back in 221B after so satisfyingly dramatic an exit. With his laptop still resting aside the sofa by a warm fire, Sherlock sighed, pulled out his phone and huddled on a cold bench. It was frustrating working with large articles on such a small screen, but he found what he was looking for. Well, almost. The organizations operating in Jakarta were small. Too small to have been around twenty years ago. Any group he might had attended would likely have been an offshoot of Exodus International. Or a smaller, more private one which would have folded long ago. 

As far as information on what techniques they employed, there were many who had made it their life's mission to violate the nondisclosure agreements and speak out. "Bioenergetics": beating a pillow to unleash one's anger at the people who made them this way (that would be the parents who were too enmeshed, too detached, too... something and not enough  
something else). "Bodywork": stripping down in front of mirrors as well as other people. And something loosely termed "accepting the arbitrary aspect of bodily functions" in order to desexualise attraction. One cheery American website mentioned "NRBs" (no-reason boners) and gave the helpful example of when your nephew sits on your lap, and you might get an erection, which doesn’t mean anything. That was a considerably more disturbing image than the previous one Sherlock had had of a room full of naked gay men trying to convince each other their arousal wasn't due to being in a room full of naked gay men. Victor would laugh at all this, of that he was certain. There was plenty more. Documentaries, video clips, undercover exposes...but all of them featured adults. Children and teens, Smith had even said himself, required a different approach. And they wouldn't be filmed either. For that, he would need personal accounts.

He found them.

With logic and "rebirth" not presumed to be an option for the young, they put their faith in Skinner. Electroshock therapy was not exactly prevalent in the 90s within mainstream psychiatric care, but this was hardly mainstream. By the time he got to accounts of facilitators placing ice on their wrists he cringed. When a second person brought up having had electrodes placed on their inner thighs, he clicked off the browser in disgust. 

While one group was busy hugging and partying together naked (aberrant sexual attraction stemming from a deficit of male bonding-- the obvious solution being _nude_ "healthy touch"), another group was taking the path of Operant Conditioning and Positive Punishment. If an image presented a sexual reaction in a subject, combat the pleasure response with pain. Significant pain. Sherlock shut the techniques themselves out of his mind and focused instead on the logical fallacy of their polar opposite approaches-- indisputable proof that none of them knew what the hell they were doing.

Perhaps, on some level, he could delve more into this world. He would be fine. Not only was no one about to strap anything to any part of his body, but he had a major advantage over Victor which would shield him from any real emotional damage. He had been gifted with far less emotions to inflict damage upon. And he could also lie exceedingly well.


	4. With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for  conquer'd and slain persons.

"I thought you might come back, Mr Escott. Make yourself comfortable." Sherlock sat in an chair which, despite the dramatic contours in its tortuous frame, felt almost cozy. "Did you forget some important part of your _research_?"

"Yes. Thank you for meeting with me again. When you mentioned delegation, Mr Smith, how did you ensure your management team was as invested in the company's success as you yourself were?"

"The trick is to make your high-level employees into mini-owners. Not everyone, mind you-- just those with a future in the company. The best way to do that is through stock incentives. Victor, for example, had stock in my textiles and my pharmaceuticals. He had amassed quite a large sum. He gave a significant amount to charity each year, and still had a nice retirement waiting. Too bad he had no one to share it with. It all went back to the state."

Sherlock ignored the heavy-handed subtext. He could verify the claim easily enough. If Victor hadn't divested-- if he had maintained his ties to the company-- perhaps their practices were not as indurate as he had originally thought. That would mean no revenge motive. And certainly no financial one.

"I also rewarded employees. Not just bonuses. Bonuses _and_ promotions. It is simply good business practice to make one's employees as happy as possible. Keeps the good ones there, and encourages more good ones to join them." Smith paused a moment, caught in wistful memory. "I loved my workers. One year, a disease ransacked the countryside. I never could find out exactly what it was. Would have made a fortune if I could have developed a cure for it. I lost so many good people. It sounds heartless, doesn't it, to think of people in economic terms. But not my supervisors. Not the people who were my eyes and ears. I needed them. And when I lost them to this... thing... it was painful. For Victor, too. He was a compassionate man, Victor. It made him an excellent manager. People did things for him personally just as often as for the good of the company. You would have liked him." He leaned forward in his chair and sighed. "So young. It's a shame he didn't have a chance to have a family-- someone who loved him." He gestured at the hallway. "This, program, is for the man who doesn't want that loneliness. Or maybe they just want to be free from all of it. The baser instincts that drive him to away from his true nature and toward depravity."

"He made a positive contribution to the lives he touched, I'm sure."

"Victor? Oh, yes. He was very good at fixing broken people. I think he collected them. Broken people. Did you know, he wanted to be a doctor? Of course you didn't." He chuckled. "I meant, have I _mentioned_ that before?"

 _A nurse. He wanted to be a nurse._ Sherlock shook his head.

"He wanted to be a doctor, and he even volunteered at a local clinic. It is a wonder he didn't die from that virus when it came through. It started with the people living in the streets, you know. He liked helping them. Made him feel good about himself. That's how philanthropy works. You feel good for helping. And then there's the added bonus of not having to think about just how damaged you are when you are busy focusing on someone else, and you even feel a superiority over those you assist. 

Charity is its own type of drug; you feel good, so you help more people. It's all about establishing neurological pathways. Some are for pleasure and some for pain. Seek out one and avoid the other. Sometimes it isn't even about that. It's about doing what you've always done. What feels right and familiar to you. For example... the more Same-Sex Attraction you  
experience, the more pathways you build. And that's when it begins to feel natural-- even healthy-- but it really is much more like a bad habit. That simply means you need to have a greater number of better, more constructive pathways. Create more positive experiences with true male-male intimacy instead of its warped substitute."

"But you are not a neurologist. You know nothing about neurological pathways. You are a businessman."

"That doesn't mean I didn't devote myself to independent study. So many people studying at university for a specific profession are idiots, don't you think? Whereas people who fall into a field without formal training-- because it interests them, because they have an aptitude for it-- well, sometimes the most professional person is, in fact, the amateur." 

_Not an amateur._ It made him think of John, of when they had first met....and he deftly steered his mind away, choosing instead to listen carefully to the pseudo-scientific rationale... sifting through for more information. Maybe Smith didn't poison Victor, but maybe he still wanted him to die.

"You know, there is always something. Always a moment that ushers you into that life. If you can find it, you can go back to it. Pinpoint it. _Rewrite_ it. Just as if you took a wrong turn. You know "The Road Not Taken," I presume."

"Of course." Odd he hadn't deleted it years ago. Poetry-- useless, pretentious ramblings.

"People think once you take that path, that way leads onto way. They think there is never a chance to turn back. But there always is. Think back to that first time. That first choice. You can step off that path and onto a new one. All you have to do, is want to. Go ahead...Bill, was it?"

It had been Will. Will Escott. But Sherlock didn't correct him.

"Take a few minutes right now, Bill. Close your eyes, and remember."

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about Victor instead-- how so little of the man he once knew must have remained at the end. There really wasn't anyone quite like him before or since. John was, and is, and --although Sherlock bristles at anything resembling prognostication-- _always will be_ amazing. John had been by his side as he worked through the tangled skein of his memory, sorted it all, and arrived at something that was what he actually wanted in a relationship, rather than what he thought he was supposed to provide. A true partner in every sense of the word. But Victor had strolled causally into what had been an assault in progress, diffused it, and later had somehow managed to not make Sherlock embarrassed about having been saved from a sordid drugs-for-sex-exchange-gone-bad worthy of a movie of the week. If it had been some other random stranger, he would have never wanted to lay eyes on them again. A burst of anger shot through him. He was thinking about just what Smith had suggested-- the moment it all went wrong. Back alley deals. Not exactly what Smith had meant, but, if he had it to start over again-- clean this time-- maybe he would have been far more attached to far fewer lovers.

Would they still have been men? What if dealers had been equally, or even primarily, female? What about all the times when he'd sought out men whose only real appeal was that they had money they were more than willing to part with when his bank account was "mysteriously" frozen, yet again? What if they had been women? Would that have changed his path? Was he, after all, only seeking out familiarity?

He was hoping Smith would interrupt this train of thought with another bit of homophobic nonsense to rail against, but he remained frustratingly silent for far too long. It was long enough, in the silence, to have just a fleeting thought-- 'Maybe I didn't make me. Maybe this made me."

Smith folded his hands on his desk. "I have something for you. It will reduce urges... buy some time to think it through without all the distractions. Meanwhile, I'll get a prescription ready for you... should you realise there are additional _questions_ you forgot to ask me about my book next week. For now...." He held out a sample pack. Sherlock took it and stared at the generic-looking box. "Think of it as a little help. Like a sleeping pill, or an appetite suppressant."

Sherlock opened the box of pills to examine the markings on them. The color, the shape, the numerical stamp ...none of them were recognizable. Whatever it was, patients were clearly offered it routinely. There were three in the sampler. That makes one to take, two to analyse. Probably a placebo. The rest of the program was useless, why not the medication?

Smith watched him remove a pill from the package, puzzled. "You don't need to wait for a certain time, but you might want to wait until you are back home. In case it makes you a bit dizzy. Side effects are rare, but they can happen. I'd take it with food just to be safe."

Sherlock folded the tab back under. "Yes, yes of course."


	5. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

He placed the pills on the kitchen table next to the microscope and slid his phone to timer before abandoning them there and retrieving his laptop from the sofa. After a few searches into old accounts, Sherlock confirmed Victor had stock in both of Smith's companies, and had even invested more into them as a supplement, judging by the bump in the otherwise steady contributions which constituted an automatic allotment. He had thought they were worthwhile, then. No more schemes to bring them down from the inside.

Sherlock trusted his own mental database completely, but he still brought up Pillbox and entered the shape, colour and size of the medication Smith had offered him. If he went down to Barts, he could do a more thorough chemical analysis; his own microscope was insufficient. Or...he could just swallow the thing, make observational notes at regular intervals, and deal with the two remaining pills tomorrow. Whatever is was a derivative of, he could handle it. 

He grabbed a notebook and a pen and chewed lightly on the capped end whilst considering how to best test efficacy. If it was supposed to kerb his libido, he had no way of quantifying a baseline measurement with any degree of accuracy. After briefly considering masturbating before and after, he dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Maybe, if he gave it enough thought, Sherlock could coax along a stimulating scenario, but not when there was work to be done. Oh well. 

Returning to the kitchen, he placed the three pills in a small plastic bag, sealed it, and set it on the counter. Less than a minute later, he removed one from the bag, held it up to the light for a brief moment, and popped it into his mouth. 

He blinked rapidly.  
One minute: No reaction.  
Two minutes: Extreme dizziness. The mobile...? On the... 9 - 9 - .... The phone falls to the floor.

 

He blinked some more.  
One minute: No reaction.  
Five minutes: No reaction...three classifications of drug eliminated.  
Fifteen minutes: An additional five types are now impossible.  
One hour: Substance is either a form of antidepressant which would require a few weeks' time to make a significant dent in any capacity (but would indeed affect sex drive) or a placebo. Heavily favouring the later. 

A placebo wonderdrug designed to allow him to start his journey to a more "acceptable" life, now headed to his large intestine. Enough to make one wish to pull up some gay porn in defiance.

 

Sherlock spat the pill out after less than a second in his mouth and made a quick notation that it had a wax coating, which would likely require exposure to stomach acid to allow it to take full effect. He placed the pill back in the plastic bag, resealed it, and set it aside to bring to Barts in the morning. "Well, John, you should be pleased to know I do occasionally learn from my mistakes," he said to the empty flat. "Although I really do believe it is inert." Sherlock sat in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

He wanted to go back to Smith. And back. And back again...until he understood precisely what it was Victor had felt. Until it all made sense. He had almost comprehended it for a moment, what it might take to drag someone like Victor down to inescapable depths. It was a familiar feeling after all-- though it was never something he had taken active steps towards. More like seeing how close he could actually get to an oncoming train before jumping off the track (knowing that any number of things could cause him to be unable to escape in time, and not particularly caring). Victor had done something else. Systematic, determined self-destruction.

Sherlock had felt, once again, as if his life was nothing but a series of chain reactions with no semblance of control or even meaning. But then he had gotten home. Sat in his chair and knew this time next week he would be contemplating another piece of the latest puzzle. It was enough distraction for the negativity, the acid etching away at his mind, to dissipate completely. Besides, his life was no longer his own. 

No mater what lingering doubts he had about how he'd gotten to this point, by choice, by habit, by random chance even...he was here. In 221B. With John heading home. 

Was Victor's life his own, to take as he so chose? Victor wouldn't have had a home to go back to, nor work sufficiently interesting to lose one's self in. It would all linger. Accumulate. Until all that remained was an ongoing loop of messages stating he was not worthy of anything which brought him joy. And what had-- the desire to help people-- was being turned against him... reframed as weakness...as denial. Replaced with a challenge to change, in order to be worthy of a connection to anything at all.

 _If he had only written me, I could have been the reason his life wasn't his own._

But. Maybe he did. Sherlock could see it in his mind's eye: a letter, two letters, maybe even a whole stack of them Smith had intercepted. At first, anyway; then Victor had probably stopped when he had gotten no response. 

Sherlock paced the room. He could have found out where Victor was living. Could have written to him. But he had assumed the relationship was unsustainable and Victor had chosen to end it.

It had been so many years, but, what if Smith had remembered him? Bits of conversation, sliding into place. He must have known.

That blog! That ridiculous blog! Sherlock sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, and grabbed handfuls of hair. John had stopped writing for some time now, but it was still in the bloody public consciousness and everyone and their uncle recognized him in that damned hat and it's not as if there was another 'Sherlock' on the whole planet anyway so there he was utterly recognizable now with one of the most distinct names in the Western World and it wasn't even his real name. He should have been Will. Yes, yes, strong Willed, a Will of his own, where there's a Will there's a way but then there would have been no way that Victor would have mentioned his name in passing to Culverton (Culverton, what the hell kind of name was _Culverton_?) _Culverton_ Smith and that _Culverton_ Smith would have remembered it years later if he had simply been Will. 

And why was he even Sherlock? Because Mycroft the bloody ponce whose every pretentious bone in his corpulent body had thought unusual names conveyed a sense of dignity and individuality and who wouldn't want that? Well, if anyone had an ounce of sense they would see individuality was a trap. A trap to not be like everyone else not a point of pride no matter how much you longed for it to be. A _trap_ that left you alone and isolated with a mind that you couldn't control or rein in that spilled out in all directions just as if his skull had cracked open on the pavement. 

"I know you can't hear me anyway, you git, but I did finally find the biscuits you wanted. You were right. They still had them in stock at the Tesco out by Finsbury Park." _Cabinet thump-- straight to the kitchen_ "It was a bloody long way away and I know you won't appreciate the trudge, but I got them and," _now into the sitting room_ , "I really must love you, because I can't think of a single goddamned reason why else I would... Sherlock?"

John stood behind the chair and placed his arms on the back of it, leaning forward as if the chair itself offered some sort of cover, while he assessed the situation as best he could before venturing forth. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and glossy. 

"Can anyone really stop it, John? Or is that an illusion? We tell ourselves.... We say if only I had done this thing or that thing...that it is always a cry for help. And if someone had just been there to listen...."

"Sometimes. Most of the time it takes far more than someone listening. Sometimes the person needs to think they are worth being listened to. And they don't."

"I don't think Culverton Smith killed him, John. Not directly. But he watched. He watched him kill himself. Not...not like you watched when I.... he _watched him get worse and worse_ and he _let it happen_! He wanted it to. But when it comes down to it, Smith didn't kill him any more than I did. We both let it happen. The difference is Smith thought by doing so, he would find some modicum of peace in the act."

"Are you seriously trying to say you not knowing what was going on with your friend halfway around the world and not being there to talk him out of it is anything like watching him kill himself and being happy he did? That man is vermin."

"I'm.... No."

"Good. So. We can't arrest him."

"No. But I would like a confession."

"Of the encouraged suicide of Victor Trevor?"

"And, depending on what I find at Barts tomorrow, you might add of the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not happy with the pill scene. I don't think I ever quite will be without in being on-screen and visual. I just can't write it the way I would need to *film* it. Anyway...I do want your feedback on it, and it may yet change slightly. I am happy to discuss in comments what I was trying to do, but it came to the point where I could have simply tinkered with it *forever* and ended up never posting this chapter and not finishing the fic in an attemot to get it right. I finally picked a version and went with it.


	6. Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death, At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, And that we call Being.

Sherlock let his mobile ring seven times before answering. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply waited for the voice to begin.

"You missed our appointment, Mr Holmes. I had a prescription all ready for you, but somehow I don't think you'll be needing it."

"How did you... you knew I was... that I am me. And you are you."

"And we are we? Of course I did. Is someone looking after you? You might need some medical attention."

"I'll check for signs. Wait."

"Yes. Do that."

Sherlock let his mobile thud against the table. "It seems the doctor is--," he waited quite a bit before finishing, "out."

"You know, I think I might just make a house call. I'm worried about your mental health, Mr Holmes."

"I need to tell you something. Something very important."

"Very well. What is it?"

"If you take the tube... don't use your oyster card. London is overrun with them. It is a wonder cabbies can still eke out a living-- so _prolific_ , those infernal cards. John and I, we have done our part. But you must let the public know. Spread the word! Before it is too late!"

"Yes. Before it is too late. I'll take a cab. I wouldn't want to miss anything."

****

 

"Mr Holmes!" Smith shouted, shaking Sherlock's shoulder with gloved hands. "Mr Holmes, can you hear me?"

"Is that you? Culverton Smith?" Sherlock sounded lost. "You came here to save me?"

Smith laughed. "I'm here."

"It is very good of you-- very noble of you. To try and save me."

"Do you know what this is?"

"Your factory. The same," Sherlock said.

"Ah! I'm impressed. That's going back quite a long time. And in another country, no less. Quite thorough, you are. You recognize the symptoms?"

"Too well."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be surprised if it _were_ the same. I never did find that cure though-- that is the God's honest truth-- though I did keep a few samples in the lab for future use. Not everyone came by that disease... organically."

Sherlock closed his eyes and almost seemed to drift off before opening them again slowly. "Did you mean to kill Victor with it?"

"No, I never meant to k-- I'll forgive you for the 'when did you stop beating your wife'-style of questioning, Mr Holmes, as you are dying and all. _I never wanted Victor to die_. I thought there was hope for him yet, to turn his life around. Did you know he never had another relationship like that again after leaving you. He struggled though his battle, and I'm proud of him. But he got tired of fighting, and he refused to lose."

Sherlock rolled over and groaned.

"A bad lookout for you if it is the same thing, though. It is certainly very surprising that you should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London-- a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that I had anything to do with it."

Sherlock rolled back and looked at Smith through unfocused eyes. He gritted his teeth with effort and gathered just enough breath to push the words out. "I know that you did it."

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But I'm curious though... what did you think would happen, investigating me like that, and then showing up at my front door later? I knew who you were right away. And I knew you would't find a thing on me. But something happened that you weren't quite expecting, yes? You didn't even know you were still struggling with your choices. Well, anyone would. No man would have chosen that path without some little voice inside, telling him how wrong it was. But you thought you could address both your suspicion of me and your own doubts about yourself at the same time? What sort of a game is that-- eh?"

Sherlock struggled to move his arm toward the bedside table. "Give me the water!" he gasped. Smith folded his arms and smiled. "Please. The wa-- wait! Do you have any change in your pocket?"

"Some."

"How many half-crowns?"

"Half-crowns? No one has had a half-crown in their pocket since 18--"

"Silver? The silver ones? No, no the others. The other coins."

"Pounds?"

"Yes, how many pounds, then?"

"In my pocket? Five."

Sherlock bolted upright in a sudden burst of energy. "Ah, too few! Too few! Or, too many! Unfortunate. However, such as they are, you can put three in your right pocket and the remaining two in your left. Please."

Smith smiled and reached into his pockets. "Delirium can be so entertaining."  
He made a show of distributing the coins, as Sherlock watched with all the focus he could muster. "There. Is that better?"

"Thank you." He collapsed backward into the bed. "Distibutes the weight properly.... Now you won't lean quite so much anymore. If you kept up way you were, you'd likely spill it. Now, the water." He presented a trembling hand for the glass before his arm dropped abruptly to the mattress. 

"You're near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go till I have had a word with you. That's why I'll give you the water." He brought the glass to Sherlock's lips. "There, don't slop it about! That's right. Can you still understand what I'm saying?"

Sherlock's voice was a ragged whisper. "I'll delete it all, put it all right out of my head. Only cure me, and I'll forget it."

"Forget what?"

"The other deaths... your competitors. You as good as admitted it. I'll forget it ever happened."

"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you showing up in a witness box. Quite another shaped box is in your future, in fact. And I said it before...there isn't one. Doesn't matter to me if you know how my rivals or their most trusted employees died. It's not them we are talking about. It's you."

"Yes, yes."

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you? Well, you came across someone even smarter this time. Now, cast your mind back. Remember when I said Victor always liked the damaged ones? Well, you are, aren't you? Damaged? I'm, frankly, surprised you lasted this long. I bet you have someone else to take care of you now. Does Dr Watson prevent you from popping yourself off, then? Or maybe you are so far gone as to no longer see the issue and pretend it is simply pride in your eccentricities. Maybe you are beyond saving." He waited a bit longer for a response before continuing, unable to handle the silence broken by bits of ragged breathing. "I could have killed Victor too. But I didn't. He killed himself. Slowly. Over many years. But somehow, _you_ just managed to stew in your own depravity. You are disgusting." He stepped closer to Sherlock's bedside.

"I... can't think. Just... just _help_ me." Sherlock bent over, doubled-up in pain, and hissed through a slow inhale.

"Cramping. Yes. Well, I will help you. I'll help you remember just where you are and how you got to here. I'd like you to know before you die."

Smith spotted the remaining two pills, which had been returned to their original box, on Sherlock's bedside table. "The very ones. And they might as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much about my rivals, and as for yourself  
and Victor Trevor, the means are different but the ends are the same. Of course, should you see him again in the next life, I doubt it will be a happy reunion, as you are responsible for his time on Earth being cut so tragically short. I provided Victor with the tools he needed to escape. He chose to use them of his own free will. You are very near your own end, Sherlock Holmes. I will sit here, and I will watch you die."

Sherlock's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

"What is that?" said Smith. "Turn on a light? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Lovely. So symbolic. Yes, I will turn it on, so I can see you better." He crossed the room and flipped the switch, then turned back to face the bed. "Is there any other little service that I can do for you, 

my friend?"

"Yes, John bought me these really excellent biscuits. He had to go all the way to Finsbury Park for them. Could you grab the box and a glass of milk and bring it on over? No? Oh well, I'll get it later." Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Why hello! Do I hear the step of a friend? May I present... Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"What?" said Smith, his voice cracking.

The footsteps on the stairway grew louder, the door opened, and Lestrade appeared.

"All is in order and this is your man. To save a dying man the trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give you our signal by turning on the light. By the way, your prisoner has some pills in the right-hand pocket of his coat which may play a part in the 

trial."

"So what are we gonna find in those?" Lestrade asked, crossing to the nightstand.

"I didn't fare much better in identifying it than Mr Smith did. An opportunistic pathogen-- I suspect it's similar to Burkeholderia Pseudomallei."

"Pseudomallei? Sounds fake."

"I assure you it isn't."

There was a sudden rush toward the door and a scuffle, followed by a cry of pain. "You'll only get yourself hurt! Stand still, will you?" Then, the click of handcuffs.

Smith cleared his throat. "He came to the clinic and asked me to help him. I felt sorry for him and I did the best I could, but some people are beyond redemption. He missed an appointment, and since I was nearby, I stopped in to check on him. That I should find him so ill was quite shocking, and I was off to get a doctor. I found those pills and suspected a  
drug relapse. Not unusual. I was taking them back with me to the clinic to find an appropriate treatment, a counter-narcotic, perhaps." 

Smith spoke directly to Sherlock. "I didn't kill my nephew, and I have nothing to hide. I tried to support him! Like so many young people, he found his life was far more difficult once he had made the ill-advised decision 

to come out of the closet. I merely..."

"God!" cried Sherlock. "I had totally forgotten. John! It's fine now!" 

John pushed open the wardrobe which creaked in protest and remained awkwardly wedged within, as Sherlock sprinted up to assist him. "So sorry for the cramped hiding place, I'm afraid there was no alternative. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it was far less likely to arouse suspicion." 

Sherlock rubbed John's shoulder and looked down, embarrassed. "My dear John, I owe you a thousand apologies." He turned to face his own would-be-murderer. "Mr. Culverton Smith, this is my partner-- in all senses of the word-- John Watson. I needed him to listen in and mobilise quickly, should something go terribly wrong before Scotland Yard arrived, and I  
told him to stay right there until I had given him the all-clear. Unless I was... being strangled... or something." Sherlock smiled at John, his eyes sporting little wrinkles at the corners. "If you had tried to speed up the process he would dash out and save me, of course." 

John rubbed the back of his neck where it met up with his sore shoulder and glared  
at the cabinet before turning a far more malevolent expression toward Smith. 

Sherlock's expression was far brighter. "Lestrade, is their a cab waiting? I'll follow you after I'm dressed, for my statement."


	7. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.

"I never needed it more," said Sherlock, as he refreshed himself with a glass of milk and some biscuits. "As you know, my meals are seldom regular, and going without for a few days means quite a bit less to me than to most men, but I could still do with some food right about now. Malingering does require a surprising amount of energy. When we've finished at the Yard, I think that something nutritious might be a good idea."

"Angelo's?"

"Perfect"

"You know, Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier were both filming 'Marathon Man' and Hoffman has to be practically carried onto the set, he is so worn out and emaciated. Oliver gives him a look up and down and says...'my dear fellow, perhaps you should try...acting."

Sherlock smirks. "Close range. Necessary."

John was quiet, while Sherlock exchanged his dressing gown for socks and pants. 

"Sherlock, do you want to... I heard everything he said. How much of that rubbish do you actually think is true?"

"At this point it time? None of it."

"If, at any time, you feel any of it has merit..."

"Yes, yes I'll talk to you about it. Don't be so concerned."

"Can't help that bit." John tossed Sherlock a fresh shirt. "I understand it, you know."

Sherlock looked up slowly. "No, I don't think you do."

John hesitated, then sat down on the bed. "Then tell me what I'm missing."

"It's not the suicide, John. It was... he didn't tell me a single new thing in our...therapy sessions. He gave me a thorough account of my depravity, a different angle each week for a month, and none of it was new. Some of them I had dismissed long, long ago as being inaccurate. But they were still waiting for me."

"We all have that. Even when we are at our strongest, we all have those voices. Doesn't mean they are right. Just means they got there first."

"Made a home in here," Sherlock gestured to his head. "Yes. I know." Sherlock looked just as distressed as before.

"But that isn't the issue, is it?"

"I can't change, John. I've never truly attempted to, because I always knew it was impossible. I had some success in pushing it all aside-- for work, not out of any twisted morality. To be sure my judgment would never be compromised. To keep my thoughts clear. I could remove it entirely, but I could never change it."

John sat silently and waited.

"You can do that. You have the ability to change. I do not." Sherlock began buttoning his shirt.

"You...think I do?"

Sherlock stopped in the midst of fastening the final button. "Don't you? Didn't you? I mean, yes, as far as Smith was concerned, it was entirely in the wrong direction, but, you did prove it possible."

"No. I didn't. I...didn't always understand how it worked. I got a bit blindsided by it, yeah. Unexpected at first. But you don't just pick one gender and run with it and you don't exactly _alternate_ either. It has been mostly women. But I don't see it as a choice. What I act on or don't is one, I suppose, but...even when I didn't, act on it, it never changed who I was. It is always there. You just don't always see it. I'm Spock."

"You...are Spock."

"I know you know who Spock is, Sherlock. I called you Spock before, and even if you didn't know then you damn well have looked it up by now."

"Mr Spock, science officer on the USS Enterprise. A Vulcan devoted to the pursuit of logic. I think you've assigned that character to the wrong person, John. You are not Spock."

"Spock is not a Vulcan. He grew up on the planet Vulcan. He looks Vulcan. But Spock is half human and half Vulcan. People watching from the outside overlook that other half. But it is always there. He fought hard to understand that balance. So if he seems to be acting entirely "Human" or "Vulcan" at any given moment...well,  
that's just a misperception by an idiot. Idiots tend to make assumptions. Based on their own limited experience."

"Sounds like something I would say."

"Told you we weren't that different. And let's say I do have choices. Let's say there was someone else, a woman, just as perfectly suited to me as you are. Do you know the odds of that ever happening?"

Sherlock chuckled nervously.

"But let's say there is a woman out there that would be... a decent enough match for me. Do you think if it was her or you, there was any way I would chose her?"

"No."

"Good. I was hoping your self-confidence wasn't damaged by this experience."

"No. I am entirely perfect for you. And you for me."

"But?"

"But you do have something that _looks_ like a choice, then. So, when you were saying I could change identities..."

"When did I say you could change identities?"

"Labels are inappropriate. Sexuality is flexible."

"Leave it to you to hear a quarter of what I said! Okay I said that I don't think a few relationships are enough to form an identity, especially if it was what you felt you needed to do instead of being what you actually _wanted_ to do."

"And how is that substantially different from what I just said?"

"You thought I was talking about me, didn't you, you utter cock! You thought I was looking for some sort of wiggle room about identity. I am bisexual. That is not wiggle room. That is not playing it safe and going back to the other team when it's convenient or when I feel threatened by some arsehole politician or fake therapist, that is an identity in and of itself, as you damn well ought to know by now, so you think when I said doing what you needed to do instead of what you wanted to do I was giving in to some dark craving and not sticking with women like I supposedly wanted, is that what you thought I meant? Because dammit I _was not talking about me_." John sniffed. "I was talking about you."

"I have a fixed identity, John. I have always had a fixed identity. Maybe my gender was irrelevant to you, but yours isn't to me."

John opened his mouth to speak to yet another incorrect assumption, but decided there were more important things to get through Sherlock's remarkably think skull at the moment, and only let out a huff of air in half-hearted protest.

"I am gay and I've always been gay and the only change I can make to that is to sublimate my sexuality entirely. Turns out it doesn't work so well, living with someone who continually pushes it to the surface."

"Well that is a lovely compliment, that is."

"You're welcome." Sherlock stopped and smiled briefly before he donned a more serious expression and continued. "But I do not see how that statement could possibly apply to me."

"Look. You...you were telling me about a lot of choices you made that were not, the healthiest choices. And I wanted you to know that making those types of...that doing those things because you needed something in your system and it was an easy way to get it doesn't matter anymore. You define who you are now. You chose who you are. Sober, and aware. And you chose me. And that is what matters. What I was saying is, all you went through back then doesn't define you. Being here with me now does. You berk. Now put your trousers on, before I end up telling you to take your pants off instead"

John tossed them at Sherlock's head. He caught them, grinned, paused a moment, and slid them over his hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is it guys. Leave me a message if you like! Always love to hear from you.  
> Thank you to Nghtsky and Areteisjohnlocked for helping me fix this up, and the wonderful folks at Antidiogenes for their ongoing support!


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